Highly Classified Mission
by Shan Jeniah
Summary: A missing-scene; deeper look at the Season 2 episode "The Seventh". Spoilers for everything in the P'Jem arc. T'Pol is sent by the Vulcan High Command to apprehend Menos, a man with ties to her past. This episode fascinates me...so I've written this story to take a closer look. Solidly T - nothing too risky here, but maybe a bit too intense for younger readers.
1. Agitation

**Classified Mission**

 _ **Disclaimer**_ _ **s**_ _ **:**_

 _ **Trip, T'Pol, and Star Trek: Enterprise belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them...**_

 _ **T**_ _ **his**_ _ **story**_ _ **is an extrapolat**_ _ **ion of deeper currents to S2E7: "The Seventh**_ _ **."**_ _ **Spoilers for that episode, S1E**_ _ **7**_ _ **: "The Andorian Incident," and S**_ _ **1**_ _ **E**_ _ **14**_ _ **: "Shadows of P'Jem."**_

 _ **I'**_ _ **ll be adding a few chapters throughout August, and using this story as the basis of a series of drabbles I'll be writing for Story A Day Sepetember.**_

 _ **As with my previous drabble series, I will be looking for prompt words from my readers….they don't have to be Trek-related, since I love a challenge! So, please – lay 'em on me!**_

She's reading, deeply absorbed in the handwritten journal of her second foremother T'Mir, when the comm signals a private, privileged communication from the Vulcan High Command. The tone announces that this is a highest level clearance, one which would circumvent normal ship's systems.

There is only one logical conclusion.

T'Pol is aware that she doesn't want to answer it; as though her refusal will change the fact of the call, and what it means. But, as she once said to Commander Tucker, what she wants is irrelevant. The needs of the many outweigh the desires of the one.

She speaks briefly with Minister K'Evel, certain that her manner is clearly betraying her unease, but unable to repress the physical responses, or the emotional discord that triggers them. Minister K'Evel gives no indication of it, but there is no way she's missed the lack of control. Would it be beneficial or detrimental to allow her to believe that it is a result of living and working with humans?

The communication is thankfully brief, and, once it's concluded, T'Pol moves away from her work station. Perhaps it would be wisest to begin reviewing the encrypted information that accompanied the transmission, but she will admit to herself that she is agitated at the thought of doing so. Instead she brings forth her table, her cushions, and her candle, and attempts to meditate.

Each time her eyes close, however, there is a sense of - of something. She can't name the emotions she's experiencing. Nothing in her training has prepared her to do so. She has been fascinated by the diverse range of words the humans she lives and serves with give to their emotional states; but she often doesn't understand the emotions to which they are referring. She's been conditioned, from infancy, to suppress emotion, to separate it from thought and action, rather than to label and define and allow it into every action and thought, as her human colleagues do.

Perhaps it would be useful to be a human now. A human could feel freely, and define the emotions. A human might also know how to deal with them. A human wouldn't be compelled by duty to their world to pursue a fugitive they were frightened to pursue.

Frightened?

Yes.

T'Pol is frightened. She doesn't want to find Menos, face the man who escaped her. She has no interest in returning a man who doesn't wish to return to Vulcan and live a Vulcan life. Seventeen years ago, she had never met a human. Her perspective was different; she did her duty simply because it _was_ her duty.

Now, she questions. What is wrong, in Menos' desire to live freely? Is it so different than her refusal to return home to be Koss's wife, to assume her role as an adult upon her world, produce a child, and ensure the continuation of the species, and the stability of her culture?

Why does she fear facing him, as though everything she knows, everything she's built, will collapse, if she captures him?

She sits until she can't deny the effort at meditation is a failure, that she is only becoming more agitated. She attempts to return to T'Mir's journal, then showers, although she already has, this evening, and goes to the Mess Hall, refusing to admit to herself that she's hoping Commander Tucker will be there, because he will surely notice her unease, and offer solace even if he doesn't understand it, and she can't speak about it.

But he isn't here, and, although she lingers, staring out the window at the stars, he doesn't come. She return to her quarters, and begins to review the materials she's been sent. She is only marginally successful at disregarding the unsettled emotions that will not be repressed, or even suppressed.

She can't restrain the agitation. It grows in her, as she alternately studies the material, rises to pace restlessly around her room, then studies until the fear - yes, she will call it fear, although she's certain it's more complex than that – drives her up again. Never before has she been so inexplicably resistant to completing a mission, and T'Pol can't ignore the fact that it was the mission to capture Menos - this same man - that had led to her resignation from the Ministry of Security. She's never completely understood that choice; she knows only that it was necessary, that she could no longer perform the duties she'd been required to attend to.

Can she, now?

T'Pol sits again, staring into the flame, and sees only the shape of emotions she can't fathom, emotions that are alive and moving in her, twisting her perceptions -

How do humans live, with this as their normal state of being?

Can she, if these unnamed and uncontrollable emotions won't abate, won't be repressed or even suppressed?

Meditation is not helping. It's 0530, still over 3 hours before her duty shift is scheduled to begin, and there is no logic in taking a third shower - but there is a solace she can't deny in the hot water - something she never experienced before coming to _Enterprise_. She stands under the powerful spray, illogically willing it to drive the unwanted, unnamed, uncontrolled emotion from her...

She stands until the alert says that she's in danger of exceeding her hot water ration, and then prepares for duty. Perhaps it will help to speak to Captain Archer, to extend him the human courtesy of informing him, before he receives the call from Admiral Forrest. He will want to know that _Enterprise_ is to be diverted and placed at the disposal of the Vulcan High Command.

Perhaps, once she has informed him, she will be able to fully commit to the mission, and suppress the her unease...

Decided, she requests the meeting, but it's awkward, and only increases the unsettled energy she'd hoped to alleviate. Captain Archer is displeased; he is illogically sensitive to what he sees as manipulation by her government. In typical fashion, he focuses his displeasure on her. Twenty minutes after she leaves his Ready Room, she receives a message that she is relieved of duty until her mission, 'whatever the hell it is', is complete, and she's been properly debriefed.

Relieved of duty, with nothing to focus on but the matter of retrieving Menos, T'Pol feels the upswell of emotions she can't name, hints of memories that won't resolve into her thoughts, where she can examine them. Surrounded by eighty-two other sentient beings, T'Pol retreats to her quarters, and, for the first time since she arrived here, feels completely alone.

Trip watches T'Pol while pretending not to - either he's gotten really good at that game these last two years, or she's so "agitated" and too busy trying to hide it, to notice. The way she's hugging herself, seeming like she's trying to hold herself together, and vanish in the mass of larger, blue-jumpsuited male bodies, says it's not his covert Vulcan-watching skills.

She's not just quiet, the way she usually is. She's damned near silent. Withdrawn. Almost as though none of this has anything at all to do with her, rather than being her secret mission.

What the hell are they making her do, and why does she look like it's a damned suicide run?

Why doesn't anyone else seem to notice just how upset she is, how strained and miserable she looks? Can't they tell how much this is bothering her?

But no one seems to. Trip pulls a quip or two out of his witticism toolkit, partly to shift the focus, partly to see if he can get anything more to go on than the non-information they're getting from the Cap'n, and the non- _anything_ from her. Mostly, though, to let her know that he's here, and that he sees her. Sees that she's -scared?

Cap'n asks her what she'll need. "Cold weather gear, restraints, and phase pistols," she says, and now Trip _knows_ she's scared. He's scared, too, even while he covers for her by exchanging glances with Travis. Her voice is low and rough with a quaver that says she's feeling way too much to be exactly rational. Finally, her eyes cut his way - but they never make it to his face.

Little Miss I'm a Vulcan; I'm Not Scared can pretend if she needs to. But Trip Tucker knows better, even if no one else does.

If only he knew what to do to make her feel better...or how to get her out of this mission...


	2. A Watched Kettle

_**Disclaimer**_ _ **s**_ _ **:**_

 _ **Trip, T'Pol, and Star Trek: Enterprise belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them...**_

 _ **T**_ _ **his**_ _ **story**_ _ **is an extrapolat**_ _ **ion of deeper currents to S2E7: "The Seventh**_ _ **."**_ _ **Spoilers for that episode, S1E**_ _ **7**_ _ **: "The Andorian Incident," and S**_ _ **1**_ _ **E**_ _ **14**_ _ **: "Shadows of P'Jem."**_

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **I'**_ _ **ll be adding a few chapters throughout August, and using this story as the basis of a series of drabbles I'll be writing for Story A Day Sepetember.**_

 **As with my previous drabble series, I will be looking for prompt words from my readers….they don't have to be Trek-related, since I love a challenge! So, please – lay 'em on me!**

* * *

" **A Watched Kettle"**

T'Pol fails, for the seventeenth time, to meditate.

She fails, for the fifth time, to exhaust herself, or find clarity in, physical exertion.

Her hot water ration is gone, so even that solace is denied her.

Captain Archer is angry with her. Commander Tucker is curious, and she feels a most illogical impulse to go to him, tell him all the things she's feeling and thinking, and ask his advice – or, better, his companionship during the waiting time. She wants to ask him to accompany her on her mission, but that's impossible.

She's halfway to the Mess Hall before she understands she intends to go there, in the hope he will be there, or come, in the hope of seeing her. She had done the same last night, but he hadn't arrived. Is there any logic in wishing that he will, tonight?

No. It isn't logical. None of what occupies and agitates her is logical. However, it is real, and likely to impact her ability to complete the mission she's been assigned. Therefore, she must give it consideration, regardless of the classified nature of the assignment. She must have another's assistance in finding order once more, if she is to function.

But the room is empty, just as it was last night. T'Pol stands for nineteen minutes by the window, watching the stars as _Enterprise_ approaches the point where she will be required to leave the ship. There is no logic in wishing Commander Tucker will come – and even less in wishing that some distraction of the type the humans can't seem to avoid or resist will present itself, and make her mission an impossibility.

There will be no such distraction. Long-range scanners show no other vessels between _Enterprise's_ current location, and the departure point.

She must therefore create her own distraction. She glances at the food coolers. She'd been too unsettled to eat since receiving the communication, and that hasn't changed. She can, perhaps, manage tea.

She walks to the dispenser, and stands before it, not taking a mug, not giving a command. She's remembering Tolaris. He'd stood too close, and, if it weren't for Commander Tucker and his friend Kov's intercession, she might well be dead as a result of what Tolaris had forced upon her.

"I still might die." Illogical, to speak to herself, when she knows the truth well enough without the speaking. Illogical, too, to resist using the beverage dispenser, simply because she once shared its workings with Tolaris.

 _His hands_ _\- on_ _her neck, on her face, holding her trapped._

 _Other hands_ _-_ _pressing her down against cold stone, holding her trapped…_

T'Pol backs away from the dispenser, crouching, turning , her gaze covering every potential hiding space.

There's still no one here, beyond her.

She sighs, and goes into the galley. Perhaps she will make plomik broth. The process, done mindfully, is intended as a meditation. It might be a soothing exercise, but T'Pol can still feel the hands – _Tolaris' on her face and neck, and the unseen ones holding her fast to the cold stone, unmoved by her screams._

She can't find the mindfulness she will need to make the broth. However, Commander Tucker secured a collection of loose-leaf teas. The preparation is simpler, but might still provide some solace.

Moreover, taking the time to brew the tea herself will allow more time to cling to the illogical hope that Trip might come to the Mess Hall.

* * *

She's standing at the stovetop, staring into the steam from a whistling kettle that ought to have set those pretty, sensitive ears of hers on high alert. Instead, she's just staring, her eyes vacant, as though she's not seeing anything in the galley.

She's shaking hard, and she's got her hands braced uncomfortably close to the heating element beneath the kettle, but she doesn't seem to notice that, either.

The way she's acting is starting to scare the hell out of _him_ , too, and he tries again to break her out of it, before she hurts herself.

"It must not be true for kettles -" He says it nice and loud.

She actually jumps, making a startled little squeak like a human woman who's just seen a mouse, as she whirls into a defensive crouch. Her hands come up to guard her face and belly, one elbow knocking into the tea mug he hadn't seen till now. It shatters against the deck plating, and T'Pol's breath comes hard and fast, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and still not here, not really.

That was a little too much of a reaction.

"Hey, sorry - I didn't mean to scare you. Just trying to make a joke - guess I figure that if I can tickle _your_ funny bone -" Trip trails off; he expects her to deny being scared, even with all the ecvidence. She has an illogical way of seeing that as an insult.

But she doesn't contest it at all, and maybe that's worse.

"'Funny bone'?" she echoes, instead, but it sounds involuntary. Still, her breath starts to even out a little. She frowns and shakes her head. "Too loud."

"I'll buy that. If I come over there and turn that off, you're not gonna drop me, are you? Cause, for a small person, T'Pol, you pack a helluva wallop."

She looks confused, her gaze flicking to him, then the screaming kettle, the door, the mug on the floor. "No," she says, finally, in a faint voice. And that's when her legs start to fold up under her -

"Hey - take it easy," he says, jumping in to catch hold of one of her arms. Damn, she's shaking so hard it's almost like she's in shock. What the hell does her damned government want her to _do_ , anyway? "Lean on me. I'll get you to a stool, okay?"

"Yes."

On the way past, Trip shuts off the stove, and the kettle promptly goes from an angry shriek to a lower-pitched cry. T'Pol sighs in relief, and leans into him. She doesn't say anything; he thinks maybe she's still more somewhere else than she is here. He wants to know what the hell's gotten her into this state, but this isn't the time to find out. Besides, with the way she and the Cap'n were acting earlier, it's damned near sure to be as "highly classified" as the mission is. Wouldn't be fair to try to get it out of her when she's so clearly not in control of herself.

"What were you trying to do, test the theory? If so, I think you got the answer." He chatters to give himself something to focus on besides how good she smells, and how natural it feels to have her weight against him like this. He guides her to the closest stool, and gets her settled.

"Theory?" She answers, but there's something hollow in the word, like she's only going through the motions of conversation without taking any of it in.

"You know - well, maybe you don't. 'A watched pot never boils.'"

"That's illogical. The pot would not boil; it's the contents that are intended to do so. Nor would being observed affect the process."

 _Ahh, so you are still in there._ Trip is damned relieved about that. Maybe he just needs to keep engaging her sense of logic, and she'll snap out of whatever this is. _"_ It's not talking about the science of boiling points, T'Pol. It means that if you keep watching and waiting for something to happen, it seems to take a hell of a lot longer than if you just went about your business."

"The water in this kettle boiled despite my observation."

Trip goes back to the stove, slips on an oven mitt, and lifts the kettle. "I'll say it did. If you still want tea, I'll start some more. There's not even close to enough left here for a cup." He doesn't mention that she must have been standing there for a long time, for the kettle to be so close to empty.

"I wasted water - "

"No you didn't. The galley's got humidity sensors. When it gets steamy, the extra vapors are collected and returned to the ship-s"

"You don't understand. The first reality every Vulcan child learns is that water is the most precious resource. It must never be wasted."

"That's the first thing you learn? Before gravity, even?"

"Yes. Vulcan is a desert world. There are very few bodies of open water; it must be drawn from beneath the surface."

"So that's why you can go days without - I've always wondered about that. Mind if I ask why you didn't turn this off?" He doesn't look at her while he fills the kettle with enough tea for two; she won't ask, but he;s got the feeling she needs not to be so alone, so isolated, while she wrestles with whatever this mission means to her.

Are they sending her off to hunt down a serial killer? Somehow, he can't imagine that phasing her in the least. This is something else. Maybe something personal, like that letter she'd gotten last year, demanding she come home to marry to order.

"I was watching the steam. It reminded me of - of home." He voice is so soft, he can barely hear her, and he's sure she was about to say something different.

He doesn't let on, though. Instead, he gets the small broom and dustpan Chef keeps handy, and cleans up the broken pottery, The smell of loose leaf chamomile wafts up, mingling with the scent of T'Pol on the air, and saves him needing to ask what she's drinking.

"Wanna know something? Sometimes, I borrow Porthos from the Cap'n. We've all changed some, out here, but a dog is still a dog, no matter where he is - or at least, Porthos hasn't forgotten he's an Earth beagle. I take him down to the cargo bay and let him sniff out bits of cheese. Maybe don't tell the Cap'n that part, OK? Beagles, you see, are famous for their noses. It just makes me feel better, when I'm a little homesick, to play with a dog again." She doesn't say anything, but, when he stands up to dump the mess into the resequencing bin, he takes a quick peek, and she seems calmer.

He doesn't have to wait long; the kettle is close was boiling by the time he gets to the end of the cleanup. He ducks out, grabs two mugs, gets back just as the kettle starts to sing. He lifts it before it can assault her ears again, and fixes their tea while she watches.

"I didn't know you experienced homesickness." She sounds a hell of a lot better, like she needs something to focus on besides whatever is eating at her.

Trip shrugs. "I love Earth. Left a lot of people I love back there. My folks, my big brother and baby sister, some really good friends...thing is, I love space, too. This is where I want to be, but it doesn't mean I don't miss where I come from." He brings her the tea. "I saw some carrot cake out in the serving case. I'm going to grab it. I think there was some salad, and I know Chef keeps plomik broth handy - you want something?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not hungry."

"You didn't come to breakfast, T'Pol - or lunch, or dinner. Even you have to eat."

"I'm not hungry," she says again, a little more emphatically. A pause. "But I will have a piece of cake." She looks up at him with lost eyes, eyes that seem to beg for understanding, or maybe absolution for what she's about to do. Other than maybe Phlox, Trip's the only one aboard who knows how sugars affect her, that having a slice of cake is about the same as having a few stiff drinks, for her.

"All right," he tells her. "You just sit tight. I'll be right back -"

"I prefer to sit in the Mess Hall, where we may look out the window."

"I'm game. Need a hand?"

"No."

She sits at the table closest to the window, and Trip sets down his tea, then goes back to the serving case for two slices of cake. "Before you eat this, I want to tell you something."

"Yes, Commander?

"Just that I'm not going to ask you about - well, about your mission. Not that I don't want to know what's it is that's got you so scared, but I'm not going to ask."

"I don't experience fear." Trip is happier than he should be to hear her go back to that lie. Not that he's going to let her get away with it.

"Save it for the rest of the crew, T'Pol. You and I both know that you can feel just as much as any of us, so there's no point in denying this one's got you nervous. I'm not gonna ask, but I do want to tell you - I think you should consider taking backup."

"You?" Her brow goes up, and her head tips a tiny bit as she watches him. He can't tell whether she likes the idea, or would be laughing her ass off if she'd only let herself.

"I'd do it for you in a heartbeat, T'Pol - but I'm not so sure I'm your best bet this time around. I can tell you need to be at your best for this one, and I don't always bring out your best side. I think you should ask the Cap'n, or Malcolm."

"Why?"

"Whatever this is is already turning you into a wreck, and you haven't even left the ship. I think you need someone with you who you can trust, if you need them." He doesn't look directly at her; she doesn't like eye contact when she feels vulnerable. That was one of the first things he figured out about her, that first time Jon sent her to help him in Engineering.

"I'm not authorized to include anyone else." Her voice has that husky, fragile sound that she gets sometimes, when something's really getting to her, and she doesn't know how to fix it. Trip fights back the urge to hug her the way he might a human woman.

"If the High Command could see what this is doing to you, they might not ask you to do whatever this is at _all._ Just tell me you'll think about it, OK?"

"I will think about it." She lapses into silence, focusing on the cake. She eats methodically, without seeming to taste it. More like she's trying to numb herself.

Trip notices that she never looks out the window, not once. When she finishes she sighs deeply, and rises a little shakily.

"Hold on there, T'Pol. Like I've told you, I'm a gentleman. And a gentleman always walks a lady home when she's had one too many."

"I'm not a lady, and I haven't had 'one too many.'"

"You are, and you have. Let me walk you home."

He can see the sublte softening in her posture when she relents. "You won't attempt to take advantage of my intoxication?"

"Nope. No gentleman would - not in _any_ way. Your honor - and your secrets - are safe with me."

He means it. Of course, there's not much he can do about it, if she reveals a clue or two as to what she's up to.

But she doesn't. When they reach her door, she half-turns to him. "Thank you, Commander." And then she slips inside, and the door closes between them. Trip stares at it for a minute or two, not sure if he helped, or just made things worse for her. Then he sighs, and goes back to the Mess Hall to clean up the remains of their snack.


	3. Late Into the Night

**Disclaimers:**

 _ **Trip, T'Pol, and**_ _ ** _Star Trek: Enterprise_**_ _ **belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them...**_

 **This story is an extrapolation of deeper currents to S2E7: "The Seventh." Spoilers for that episode, S1E7: "The Andorian Incident," and S1E14: "Shadows of P'Jem."**

 **Author's Note:**

 _ **I'**_ _ **ve go**_ _ **t**_ _ **at least one more chapter to post this month. I meant to get to this sooner, but Real Life has kept me hopping in all kinds of ways...thankfully, most of them have been good, like celebrating my 20**_ _ **th**_ _ **anniversary with my Accomplice; business stuff; polishing a non-Trek short story for a small-press anthology; new-to-us Shuttlepods One and Two purchased; and growing teenagers (one of whom will be old enough to start learning how to pilot a shuttlepod himself come Saturday, September 2. Yes, my son shares a birthday with Malcolm Reed and Christa McAuliffe).**_

 **But I'm committed to posting what I have before the month is out, because I'll be** _ **using this story as the basis**_ _ **for my**_ _ **Story A Day Sepetember**_ _ **Drabble Series, which I'll be adding to daily, and posting here soon after**_ _ **.**_

 **As with my previous drabble series, I'** **m** **looking for prompt words from my readers….they don't have to be Trek-related, since I love a challenge!** **I've got a nice little pile from Braxin, but time is running** **o** **ut. So,** **please – lay 'em on me!**

 _ **Late In the Night**_

T'Pol stands at the entrance to her room, staring across at the view through her window. She wants to turn back and ask Trip to go remain with her tonight, and accompany her on this mission, if she must retrieve Menos. She feels safer with him than with any other of the humans aboard, for reasons that have nothing to do with logic.

Trip will always protect her as well as he is able. Of that, she has no doubt.

However, Trip said he wasn't the best choice, and recommended she ask Captain Archer or Lieutenant wants to help her, wants to know what she's doing. If he recommends another companion, he's doing it to protect her. She remembers him doing the same, when they were alone in the cell on Rigel 10, when she was unwilling to leave Enterprise to marry Koss, and when she was diagnosed with Pa'Naar Syndrome, and she asked him to hold the knowledge in confidence.

She turns back toward the door, touches it. Illogical, to do so, to long for him to be waiting there, and to hope that she can feel or even hear him there. To consider asking him to come with her, even though his logic is unassailable. But what has logic to do with the churning of unnamed and inexplicable emotions within her? Logically, she should have no emotions regarding Menos. It had been her duty to apprehend him, and she failed that duty. Now, she has the opportunity to rectify the error that allowed his escape. If she succeeds, her duty will be completed, and her full complement of six fugitives all returned home, to Vulcan.

The only appropriate emotional responses to these circumtances are honor and satisfaction at the completion of a duty she formerly failed in.

She doesn't want to capture Menos. She strongly resists the concept of even being on the same moon he inhabits. She'd hoped ingesting sugars might free her of the feeling, even if only for the few hours it would take them to pass through her system. But, instead, inebriation has sharpened her emotions, making their weight more oppressive. Her chest and heart feel constricted, making breathing difficult.

Trip is correct. She must not go alone. Her emotional state is chaotic, and, therefore, her ability to complete the assigned mission is compromised.

She nearly leaves her quarters to go to him, confide the feelings that threaten her mission, but doesn't. Perhaps, her emotional chaos is driving her desire. Perhaps he's correct, too, in his assessment that he isn't the best choice for this mission. He protected her in the Suliban cell, but her compromised control had led to him responding to her, as well, in a manner he didn't seem to fully command.

She remains within her chamber, struggling for the rudimentary control of a Vulcan child. Trip is correct, and wiser perhaps than he knows. Her own desires are illogical, and prove her unfitness.

She must focus on the mission, and only that.

T'Pol gathers herself, and goes to speak with the Captain, before she can surrender to the other, more desirable, choice.

"Sorry to wake you up, Trip."

It probably wasn't a good idea to tell the Cap'n that he hadn't been to bed, yet. Or that he'd been up with - well, maybe he could call her a sick friend. She sure as hell had looked sick - scared sick - and something more, something that made her want to get drunk on sugar, just to get some relief.

But he couldn't tell Jon that. Not about what sugars did to her, and not about her being so scared, Maybe he should, but it was T'Pol's mission, and her decision.

"Trip - did I wake you up, or are you asleep on your feet?"

"I, uh - c'mon in, Cap'n." Damn! He hadn't meant to leave Jon standing there while he wandered around in his own head.

He belatedly gestures into the dark room; hoping it'll look like he was asleep, not sitting on his bed staring out at the stars, wondering where the hell she's going, and why, and what about it is tearing her apart. Wishing she'd said she wanted him with her, even if he knew it wasn't the best choice. Knowing he wanted to be with her because he couldn't bear for her to be so lost, so vulnerable, without him to protect her and keep an eye on her.

Jon pulls up the desk chair, and Trip stands there, not quite knowing what to do with himself, until the Cap'n says, "At ease, Trip. Sit, before you fall. I won't be long - just need to let you know you're going to get to play Captain for a few days."

"Sir?" Damn. She asked him, maybe told him what she was up to. And he said yes. What man wouldn't say yes to _her_? He should be glad, and he is - she needs someone to look out for her - but, damnit, he wants it to be _him_.

"T'Pol came to see me. I'm going with her, as backup. So you get to sit in my chair."

"She tell you what this is all about?"

"Classified, Trip."

"Course it is...Cap'n, you sure this is a good idea, her pulling us off course like this to run errands for the damned Vulcan High Command?"

"I don't think she was given much choice, Trip. T'Pol's not Starfleet. If we want to keep her here - and I do, even if _you_ don't - we can't keep making waves. Lord knows, we get into plenty of trouble with the Vulcans just by being human."

Trip tries another tack. He needs to know if the Cap'n can read her the way he's learning to. Whether Jon can be counted on to have her back. "She seem - okay - with this, to you?"

"Careful, Trip. I could almost get the idea that you care. Or are you hoping she doesn't come back?"

"Well, I get along with everybody else. If something happens to her, who will I take my frustrations out on?" He mugged it up, hoping Jon would see just what he wanted to see.

Jon laughs. "She seems - okay. Serious about this mission - but T'Pol's serious about _everything_. Meet me in my Ready Room at 0800; we're leaving at 0845, and I've got a few things to cover with you. Now, I think we'd both better get some sleep."

Once he's alone again, Trip gets up and starts pacing. He wishes he knew if it's good that the Cap'n isn't picking up on her turmoil...

Mostly, though, he wishes he was the one going with her; or, better yet, that she wasn't going at all.


	4. Flashes

****Disclaimers:****

 ** **Trip, T'Pol, and**** ** _ **Star Trek: Enterprise**_** ** **belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them...****

 **This story is an extrapolation of deeper currents to S2E7: "The Seventh." Spoilers for that episode, S1E7: "The Andorian Incident," and S1E14: "Shadows of P'Jem."**

* * *

 ** **Author's Note:****

 **Real Life** **continues to keep** **me hopping in all kinds of ways...thankfully, most of them have been good, like celebrating my** **son's 16** **th** **birthday, and his initiation into the world of drivers. Then there's** **business stuff** **for our growing hot sauce enterprise (pun intended)** **;** **fini** **shing** **revisions** **a non-Trek short story for a small-press anthology;** **and various other personal and family projects.**

 **There's one more short chapter to this story, at the moment. After that, we go to drabbles, in a new story which will eventually lead to new chapters for this one….does that makes sense to anyone but me?**

 **M** **y** **Story A Day Sepetember** **Drabble Series,** **is growing** **daily, and posting** **will commence once the final chapter is posted here (and that's pending revision).**

 **This chapter contains a bit of #headcanon: the tikkin is the rarest of Vulcan fruit, living its entire life cycle in a matter of moments. It's found only on the Forge, and only when T'Khut, Vulcan's sister planet, is full. Ingesting its nectars, which must be done in a very specific manner to prevent the fruit's immediate decomposition, brings a madness, and permanent cellular changes. Those who ingest the nectar are said to choose less conventional lives, and to live by a deeper, broader form of logic than others. Whether this is quantifiably true is unknown; those who do so seldom reveal their acts.**

 **As with my previous drabble series, I'** **m** **looking for prompt words from my readers….they don't have to be Trek-related, since I love a challenge!** **I've got a nice little pile from Braxin** **and some fans** **, but** **Trip and T'Pol are word-greedy** **. So,** **please – lay 'em on me!**

* * *

 _ ** **Flashes****_

As the shuttlepod nears the planet, and the official beginning of her mission, T'Pol's agitation grows, and with it the heaviness, which is now accompanied by nausea. She could attribute it to her indulgence in the cake, but she had allowed ample time for the intoxicants to clear her system.

The cause of her distress is Menos.

And, at the same time, it isn't Menos.

There is no logic in this paradox. It is nonetheless true. Menos is at the root of her emotional disequlibrium, but there is more.

As she sits in front of Captain Archer, T'Pol attempts to unravel her confusion.

After she failed to apprehend Menos in the Risan jungle, she'd taken leave, and traveled to the Forge to engage in a period of intensive meditation. That's where she had found the tikkin ftuit, and ingested its psychotropic nectars, welcoming the changes they wrought in her. In the clarity that followed the tikkin-madness, she knew she could no longer serve in the Ministry of Security. She resigned her commission over her mother's objections, and eventually sought sanctuary at P'Jem while she attempted to resolve her unease without T'Les's interference.

She scrolled through the images of Menos, attempting to understand the disquieting wish to request that Ensign Mayweather turn the craft around and return to _Enterprise_ , where she would be safely away from Menos, and her own turmoil.

"T'Pol, is there anything you can tell us about this Menos you're after?"

 _Yes. I don't want to find him. I don't want to detain him. I don't want to see him. I want to go home, to_ Enterprise _, and forget Menos._

"What I am about to tell you is highly classified information, and must not leave this shuttlepod." Her voice seems hollow as she begins to brief them on the specifics she can share without grave risk to her standing with the High Command.

 _She's running through the foliage, the sodden air straining her lungs despite the medication intended to allow her to compensate, the scent of Vulcan males discordant in this tropical jungle…_

"They thought they were invulnerable."

 _They?_ Her own thought is echoed by Captain Archer; and she corrects the misspoken word at once.

Why can she almost see a second, shadowy figure following Menos, and fleeing her? _She smells him: n his scent is being discrete and separate from Menos._

Was that how he escaped her? Had he used another Vulcan as a decoy? Or only the scent of one? Where would he procure it?

He is a smuggler. If he wanted the scent of another Vulcan male, he could have secured it, or paid to have it made to his specifications. He'd seen her, more than once, and eluded her. He knew she was a female. Ut would be logical to use that fact to distract her from her pursuit.

Any man would suffice, if his own scent was nullified, and replaced with the scent of a Vulcan.

 _Is that what had happened? How can she determine if it has? If there was a second man, who was he?_

There are too many questions, and no time now to answer them. Mr. Mayweather is landing the craft, and it is time to complete the mission she'd begun seventeen years ago.

The establishment they enter is less a trading post than a makeshift semi-permanent encampment, filled with the type of roughened clientele who don't ask questions of those with whom they engage in business or personal dealings. She struggles with fear that threatens to become panic.

She doesn't want to encounter Menos.

She didn't ask for this assignment. She resigned her position with the Ministry of Security six years past.

If Menos escapes her again, the Ministry will have little choice but to place logic above honor, and assign a more competent operative to the mission, or abandon it.

 _I could allow him to escape me. Assist him, perhaps, if there is opportunity to do so._

It's not logical from a Vulcan standpoint. But she's served more than a year with humans, and they often employ a different form of logic. Trip, in particular, excels at such improvisational perspectives.

 _If I must be here, I wish Trip was here as well._

Wishing it so won't make it true; however, she can perhaps emulate his manner of approach.

Perhaps she can increase the probability that Menos will escape without alerting the Captain or Ensign Mayweather. Humans have a tendency to see what they expect to see; they are likely to expect her to perform to the best of her ability. She can take advantage of that expectation, and use it to provide opportunities for the subject of her search to elude her.

She must limit herself to small, unobtrusive actions, but, if Menos is as attentive and wary as she remembers, he may well notice, and slip away before she can follow – particularly, if she doesn't hasten to do so.

She turns her head within her loosened hood, so that her ear will stand out clearly, marking her species. Very few Vulcans travel to places such as this; it will be noteworthy. She makes no attempt to disguise the fact that she is searching, or to alter her kinethesiology, which furher names her Vulcan. If he remembers her, he might identify her as the young woman sent to take him into custody. Surely, if he knows she's searching for him, he will flee. He must logically have an escape route well planned in preparation for such an eventuality. Whatever cosmetic or ethical changes he's undergone, he remains a Vulcan within.

She keeps her search cursory, although she is aware of every detail of this room, every occupant. She knows where her human crewmates are searching.

A motion in a mall mirror, and there is Menos, watching her . Instinct and conditioning take hold of her reflexes, spin her despite her fear -

But he is gone in the time it takes her to complete the motion.

He wanted her to see him. Why?

T'Pol moves through the mass of beings separating them. Her training won't allow her to simple relinquish her search. But she restrains herself from moving quickly. Most of the patrons are male, and considerably larger than she; T'Pol allows them to push and pull at her without resisting.

Menos is near. She can smell him. She can find him easily, but she makes no effort. Instead, she visually scans the room at eye level rather than look beneath the tables. When the Captain approaches her, she says she doesn't know where he is.

Captain Archer leaps up onto a table, and makes the same piercing note he uses to recall his canine.

An energy weapon discharges, inciting a rapid shift of movement away from source and target. Surely, Menos will escape in the frenzy. She can report her failure to the High Command, and be done. With Menos, and the memories of running, and being held down.

Ensign Mayweather ends her hopes.

She's going to have to face Menos, and her own unwillingness to do so.

* * *

"Captain _Trip_?" Malcolm laughs that supercilious British laugh of his.

"Come on, Malcolm. Trip's not _that_ bad."

He'd never realized that how easy it is to hear what's going on out there. How often had the Cap'n listened in? Oh, damn- had he ever listened in while he and _T'Pol_ were alone in the Mess Hall? Had either of them ever said anything incriminating, something that could get her in trouble with the High Command, and him with Starfleet? Or just embarrass them?

"The fact that he wants everyone to call him _Trip_ in the first place ought to be enough to scare you, Hoshi. _Captain_ Trip!" Malcolm actually snorts in derision.

Trip's a little hot under the collar, now. Doesn't sit very well with a sleepless night and gnawing worry about T'Pol.

"He'll probably take over the Captain's Mess, keep Chef busy customizing lunch and dinner, show terrible movies every night, and not even assign anyone to clean up the spilled popcorn. He's likely to divert all the ship's energy to Engineering, and Captain Archer will be lucky if there's anything but debris left when he and T'Pol get back."

That's more than enough for Trip. He snaps off the intercom., and goes back to trying like hell to forget that look on her face when he'd seen her on the shuttlepod stairs. She'd looked past the Captain, and straight at him. Those lost eyes, and the way she stood over that screaming almost-empty kettle, are still chewing at him.

He's willing to bet she didn't sleep last night, either. But all he has to do is keep the ship in orbit and in one piece, while she has to -

 _What?_

 _What the hell is it she's doing, anyway?_

He spent the night pacing and asking himself that. He pokes at his breakfast of French toast, scrambled eggs, and apple maple sausage, but doesn't take a bite. His stomach doesn't want food getting in the way of its twisting and turning. Trip sighs and gets up to pace the length of the Captain's Mess.

He's on his seventh lap when it hits him so fast he nearly crashes into the table.

Whatever has Miss Scared Half Out Of Her Wits And Trying Like Hell Not To Show It terrified enough to guzzle carrot cake is _inside_ of her.

Is it that she's spent so much time living with humans, she's forgetting how to be Vulcan? Is it because of him, and this on-again, off-again almost-friendship between them?

Is he making life easier for her, or harder?

Why the hell hadn't he begged to go with her? He's got this feeling she wanted him with her, and not the Cap'n. Jon's a helluva man, best friend Trip's ever had - but he's got a grudge against the Vulcans that goes a ways past reason, and Trip's seen him dump it on T'Pol too many times to think he won't do it again., if he gets riled.

"You haven't always been so fair to her, either." He didn't mean to blurt it out in an empty room, but it's true. He's stopped jumping down her throat just for being Vulcan, though. It's not that they don't still lock horns about damned near everything, but at least half of it is she's so much fun to fight with. She's got a damned quick mind, a spectacular range of knowledge, and a perspective that challenges him to see things in ways that aren't natural for him. Sometimes, like last night, and when she didn't want to drop everything and run home to marry that guy Koss her parents picked out for her, he gets the idea he maybe does the same for her...

And that she has as much fun as he does matching wits, even if she can't or won't say so.

But the Cap'n - he still translates everything about her through his damned Vulcan lens, still blames her for everything her government does, even though she seems to go against them more often than not, these days. Jon might not even notice that she's in a state of emotional freefall unless she actually comes apart on him.

"And by then, it's probably going to be way too late."

That scares Trip half to death. It kept him awake all night, and makes his stomach refuse the entire idea of breakfast. If she comes apart on a top-secret mission, she could get herself killed. And Jon and Travis might not even see it coming.

"I should have gone with her."

Should have _insisted,_ if she tried to argue about it. Made an ass of himself until she couldn't resist him anymore. He's good at needling her into doing things she wants to do but doesn't see as logical. He could be with her right now, instead of pacing around in the Captain's Mess all alone, talking to himself.

Because now, too late, he's damned sure that she's in real trouble, and she might be going under before anyone else even notices she's not swimming anymore.

"Oh, damn, T'Pol, I'm sorry."

He wants to wait by the comm, hoping against hope she'll call in, or the Captain will, or even Travis, so that he can - what? Tell her he knows she's in the kind of trouble she doesn't know how to deal with, and that he'll be here, when she gets home? Tell the Cap'n to keep an eye on her, because she's an emotional wreck right now?

"Oh, yeah, Tucker. I can see that. There'll be rumors all over the ship that I'm a lovesick puppy she's too emotionless to even notice enough to kick me out the airlock."

But he's got to do _something_ to stave off the worry. He stares at the comm, and remembers Malcolm's derision. It gives him an idea. He spends a few minutes thinking it over, but he knows he's going to do it, because there's really nothing else he _can_ do right now.

He's the Acting Cap'n, and he's damned well going to play the part, keep morale up, and maybe help with his own, in the process. That's it – he's going to do what he needs to do to take care of things here, and hope karma is on his side and protects her, too.

He'll start with Malcolm. He's going to work that damned military swagger and arrogance right out of him. It's not like the arrogance T'Pol had when she first got here. That was more the way they all perceived her at first, more than it was any intention on her part. Vulcans just have different body language and different ways of seeing things. It's not really arrogance at all, because arrogance would be illogical.

But Malcolm's human, and ought to know better.

And, since he doesn't, Trip's going to use his nervous energy to teach the Tactical Officer a lesson.

* * *

"...And I don't deserve to be shot."

Flashes.

 _He's running; she's running. Someone else between them._

 _All running -_

 _Being forced down, held against a stone bed, supine, struggling._

 _Her throat raw from screaming._

"No one's going to shoot you." Captain Archer's voice brings her back to the present, but the flashes intrude again:

 _Running._

 _One man._

 _Two men._

 _Her._

 _The stone platform._

 _Writhing, thrashing._

 _Screaming through a raw throat._

Menos speaks and breaks the flashes.

"What about _her_?"

The words hold meanings she can't understand. Does he know something she doesn't? Is he trying to sway her? What of the hologram he displayed? Does he carry it as a ruse, or does he truly have a wife and children? What will be the consequences to them, if she returns Menos to Vulcan, as ordered? Are they innocents who will be punished by his incarceration, when they have nothing to do with his crimes, real or implied?

Flashes again - too many flashes – overwhelming her mind. The sensations more real than this moment, this trading station. Juxtaposition of hot wet jungle and cold hard stone.

 _Running._

 _One man._

 _Two men._

 _Her._

 _Stone platform._

 _Cold and hard._

 _The hands pinning her._

 _Screaming, fighting -_

 _Helpkess._

"You're a liar!" Her throat is raw, like when she was pinned to the stone while the ancient priest chants. She jerks up from her chair, knife in hand - _when_ _did she_ _unsheath it?_ _Why had she brought it?_ _What d_ _oes_ _she intend_ _to do with it?_

 _Is she going to kill him?_

She doesn't know. She lunges forward, and slices -

Captain Archer yanks at her from behind, trying to hold her. "T'Pol!" She feels his fear through the touch - he thinks she's stabbed Menos. That she means to kill him. But she has achieved her objective. When the momentum of the freed strap thrusts her back, he looks at what she's holding and releases her. She cuts free another of the straps on his outer garment, then spins. Captain Archer moves quickly out of her path and asks her what she's doing.

"He's not telling the truth." She lashes the buckles to the bottoms of her boots. She's uncertain what she intends. She is certain of only one thing.

 _She must have answers._

"Where the hell are you going?" Captain Archer follows her.

"T'Pol!" The command tone jolts into her motion.

She turns halfway back. Frigid wind and sharp-edged snow through the open door. He's her Captain; she must respond. But she can't stop.

"He says he has a ship full of injector casings." She turns away, into the cold, bare hands tugging at her hood. Down the stairs, and onto the landing deck, moving in a quick sliding shuffle. The need for answers drives her on, pulls her to Menos' ship.

Flashes, as she runs.

 _Not frozen - hot jungle._

 _Air, but so rank and thick she it chokes her, drowns her desert-evolved lungs._

 _Running anyway. Intent on the mission._

 _At the edge of limbic engagement, with no recourse._

 _Fear rising in her -_

 _The stone platform, the shearing pain, the emotions crushing her as she struggles - no one holding her now; she's fighting herself, and what's within her._

"But the platform's covered with acid." Captain Archer's words echo. Acid. Emotion.

She _must_ understand!

Into the craft - a small cargo vessel, only one hold. Containers of varying sizes and shapes; shefocuses on the large metal crates. These could house injector casings, if he's telling the truth.

The lids are too heavy to lift on her own - not for Menos, but she's smaller, female - she stares from place to place, and finds a prising rod.

 _Cold - the metal so cold in her hands,_ _like the stone beneath her._

 _Not Risa-hot, phaser gripped tightly in a sweating, shaking hand, the heat not desert-dry and welcoming, but a potent, humid force -_

One container.

Casings. Nothing else.

A second - she moves a casing or two -

Flashing -

 _Running, heat, leaves slapping at her face. The man nearest stumbling, falling. The other turning, yelling, as though he had never been Vulcan, "Jossen!"_

 _It is Menos. She sees his face, contorted around the other's name -_

 _An Elder, no - an Ancient - reading from an obsolete text. She's forced down, the impact absorbed by the hands that hold her, won't release her -_

 _The two events are connected. Menos, Jossen, and Risa; priest, hands, stone._

A third container. She wrenches it open. Tthe muscles in her shoulder strain nearly to the tearing point. She digs the bar into it, then sinks down to use her hands, headless of the dangers -

 _Only injector casings._

 _Only memories she doesn't understand._

 _Only the Captain, and Ensign Mayweather -_

 _And not Trip._

They don't know how fragile her control can be. They can't help her to understand the chaos of her emotions.

She sinks down against the crate. Guilt and despair and fear obscure all reason, she imagines that Trip is here, holding her, accepting her, making tea and human jokes -

But he's not here, and she's never felt more vulnerable and alone, lost in questions and memories.


	5. Too Many Not Enough

****Disclaimers:****

 ** **Trip, T'Pol, and**** ** _ **Star Trek: Enterprise**_** ** **belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them...****

 **This story is an extrapolation of deeper currents to S2E7: "The Seventh." Spoilers for that episode, S1E7: "The Andorian Incident," and S1E14: "Shadows of P'Jem."**

 ** **Author's Note:****

 **Th** **is** **short chapter** **is the last in** **this story, at the moment. After th** **is** **, we go to drabbles, in a new story which will eventually** **become** **new chapters for this one….does that makes sense to anyone but me?**

 **M** **y** **Story A Day Sepetember** **Drabble Series** **is growing** **daily, and posting** **will commence** **sometime in the next few days (my husband and I will be selling hot sauce at an event this weekend, so things might take a little longer to get rolling than I hope.**

 **As with my previous drabble series, I'** **m** **looking for prompt words from my readers….** **And** **they don't have to be Trek-related, since I love a challenge!** **I've got a nice little pile from Braxin** **and some fans** **, but** **Trip and T'Pol are word-greedy** **. So,** **please – lay 'em on me!**

* * *

 _ **T**_ _ **oo Many; Not Enough**_

No sleep. No breakfast. No lunch.

Too many problems. Too many decisions. Too many calls from that damned Vulcan captain.

And _way_ too much coffee.

And he hasn't had nearly as much coffee as he has worries over T'Pol, and what she's doing, _how_ she's doing.

Why the hell did he just just sent her off with the Cap'n like that? The way she'd been last night, she would've almost for sure accepted having him along, and he could've kept an eye on her structural integrity. Cap'n does a fine job up there on the Bridge, and he'll take as good care of her as he can - Trip knowa enough to know that Jon Archer likes her, maybe even sometimes wants her (though he's sure the Cap'n has no idea at all what _that_ can of worms is like once it's open...)

But Jon Archer isn't an engineer. He's not used to the type of complications a system as different and intricate as hers can present. She's like the warp core - what most people think of as the engine is just the casing, the protective shell. They've got no grasp of what makes the ship go; what's 'under the hood', as Grandpa Chuck used to say.

Trip knpws what's under the hood. Of the engines, and the beautiful Vulcan. It's not just the protective layer of logic, strength, and curve-hugging uniform the Cap'n sees - she's so much deeper than that. She's a creature of passion as much as logic, and she can burn every bit as hot as that warp core…

Even though he's exhausted, Trip can't help getting a little turned on, remembering Decon, and that Suliban cell, when she'd proved her passion to him.

She's disciplined because she needs to be, if she's going to contain her passions well enough to function. If she loses that famous control now, she might shake herself apart.

The comm signals, Trip jumps, stares around him, a little surprised to find himself in the Cap'n's Ready Room.

"What now? Malcolm get a hangnail?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek, glad he hasn't pressed the button yet. He tries to take a deep breath, but his chest is too tight, and he's afraid his stomach might let go.

The comm signals again, and Trip stabs the button, letting himself imagine it's Malcolm's eye. "Tucker."

"Sorry, sir, but Captain Tavik is calling again."

"And let me guess. Whatever the hell he wants to talk about is 'classified', and he'll only talk to the Captain, right?"

""I'm sorry, sir," Hoshi says, again. She really sounds it, too, even though Trip hears Malcolm snickering at Tactical. Man needs more than a poke in the eye.

"It's not your fault, Hoshi. Not unless you invented Vulcan secrecy, anyway."

"What should I tell him?"

It hits Trip in the kind of flash he always takes seriously. Maybe that last cup of coffee had been good for something besides giving him a serious case of the jitters. "Listen, can you stall him another hour or so and come in here? I've maybe got an idea..."

He deals with three more decisions while he waits for her, and another dozen or so while she follows up on his inspiration. About a quarter of those are gonna keep Malcolm Damneed Reed too busy for idle gossip and snickering, at least for the next day or so.

Finally, though, Hoshi comes back with the best news he's heard since – well , before T'Pol dropped her secret mission bombshell on them. Trip forgets himself for a second, and lets out a whoop, grabbing Hoshi, spinning her around, kissing her cheek.

"Uh, Commander?" She's embarrassed, and Trip splutters out an apology, but she twinkles at him, and says, "I'm glad the big chair hasn't taken _all_ the fun out of you." Damn, it fee;s good to just be himself, good old impulsive Trip, for a minute, the way he hadn't since T'Pol's classified mission started, and she started to fall apart.

But thinking of T'Pol thunks the weight right back on his chest. What's she going through, right now? Are they wherever they're going yet? Is whatever it is as terrifying to her as she'd seemed to think it would be? What _i_ _s_ it? Is her life in danger?

The questions follow him back out to the Bridge, and into the Captain's chair, his stomach churning with nerves.

The comm chirps at him, and he sets the worrying aside as best he can, not being Vulcan. He needs to pull this off, so he doesn't get her in any more trouble. Seems like the damned High Command of hers is just looking for an excuse to blame her for things.

He's worked it out as best he can. Now he just needs to sell it.…

Five minutes later, slumped in the Cap'n's chair, Trip tries to decide whether to laugh his ass off, or hit something...a damned water polo score! All that for a _water polo_ score!

He decides he needs to hit something – or someone.

"Malcolm, come with me."

"Sir?

"I need a sparring partner." _And to try to stop worrying about a certain Vulcan in need..._


End file.
